Can't Bottle Sunshine
by JustAGirlWithAPen
Summary: Russia isn't exactly what you'd call readable. What lurks beneath that creepy smile? What does he think of when he's all alone? What secrets does he keep in his kitchen? Rated T for later chapters. May continue if r&rs are OK.
1. Home Alone

Nothing could match the crunch of freshly iced snow under boots. Russia left deep, size-13 tracks that snaked their way from the edge of his lawn and ended at the pond. The frozen body of water made him half frown. It lacked its normal glossy luster. With a sigh he admitted to his innermost self that it was symbolic of many facets of his life now; the economy was bad, he had lost his former strength, and although many countries speculated that the globe was warming and melting, he had no such luck; winter was still cold to the lonely Siberian. He spent more days at home with a bottle and a short-wave radio than he cared to admit. One could only read Leo Tolstoy's tomes so many times without going mad, or rather as his western acquaintances would say, "catching cabin fever".

The wind blew harder, and he pulled his scarf closer, with a futile hope that some of Ukraine's essence still lingered in its threads. No such luck. Muffling a sigh, he viewed the panorama one last time before trudging home with his eyes downward cast. To find amusement in his solitude, he made a game of the homeward trek by trying to place his feet exactly where they had fallen on the way there, leaving only one set of tracks. It was physical work, the kind that kept your legs and subconscious busy but left the moment open to his memory like a levy to a rising tide. Russia's eyes watered from the cold. That's what he told himself.

It had been summer in Moscow. He had been happily united with Uki and Bela back then. His lips twitched-to those who knew him well enough, (few did) he appeared to be smirking-before fading back into the blank canvas of his face, which matched the whiteness around him. _One foot here, another there, don't step too far, lightly, lightly… _Bela had been happier then. Uki had been also, and she would sit next to the empty fireplace with him. She would always be his favorite, and he missed her dearly. Why did she have to run?

It had been that day he had stumbled across her diary. "Russia is my favorite big brother. I've never seen eyes like his, not in the entire world… I don't get why everyone seems to be afraid of him. His gaze is…. not entirely pleasant, but certainly nothing to run from." She had come to fear him anyways, Russia thought with an odd twist in his stomach, just like everyone else. Now all he had was this scarf and a stolen page from her diary. Sometimes at night it haunted him more thoroughly than any specter he's heard tell of.

Finally, his home was in sight. He was here alone, for a little while; his territories had were out visiting, and he had let them go. Russia stomped the snow off his ancient, cracked boots. Protests shot up his legs as he did this, which probably meant his legs were going to kill later. If only he's remembered his snowshoes. On the cold wooden floor, now shoeless, his feet were deafeningly silent when compared to the crunch-crunch rhythm that had followed him home. He laid a hand on the banister, looking up at a photograph of the Allies. Not a bad-looking group, they all looked calm and victorious. Except for America. That child was different from the rest of the world. America was even different than England, despite their many obvious similarities (no matter how much they deny it). Russia snorted at the self-proclaimed hero's expression. _It's true, ignorance is bliss. _Then again, ignorance was innocence, a trait not often seen in his part of the world.

Russia, although he would deny it, had a fetish for innocent things. It only made sense, since most countries were more innocent than he, with the exception of France and maybe Turkey. He had a crush on the youngest Italy once upon a time; he did not dare to make a move, though, for it was obvious that the little Pastafarian had a crush on a certain blonde disciplinarian. And then there was…

No. He wouldn't say it out loud. It was his guilty pleasure, but even that he kept bottled up and off his face, that infamous creepy smile serving as a substitute. Instead, he walked to the freezer, leaving his long brown coat in a neat pile over the back of his ottoman. Opening it carefully, he reached behind stacks of frozen fish, beets, and ice cube trays to find what he was searching for. Careful not to let it slip, he brought a frozen panel of ice to the light. Nobody knew about it, save his cat, and he wanted to keep it that way. Aged by the harsh prison it was kept in, the sunflower of glory had a withered stem and the tips of its leaves had turned a light golden brown. In this way, it reminded him even more of his favorite country-his wish against all reason. It winked at him from behind its icy window, daring him to make a move. Smiling with genuine feeling for the first time in days, he put it back in its place. All alone, Russia needed no more than memories. Sunshine had somehow filled the room once again.


	2. Canada's Revenge

**Author's Note: This isn't really a "pairing"…yet. I'm not sure if it ever will be, so don't get your hopes up. I'm just trying to write a story about my favorite character. Please read and review…**

**Oh, and although I tried to make it as "realistic" as possible, the characters may be slightly OOC. Just sayin'.**

Russia's childish smile wilted slightly as he looked over the small crowd. The True Northerners, as he liked to call them, were a quiet bunch among themselves. Sure, Denmark could be a little loud sometimes, but for the most part they just made small talk and talked about the weather. Although "global warming" was a hot topic-no pun intended- he still thought it was cold in their territories. It would be nice to move somewhere warmer, to a balmy climate with green fields and sunflowers, but part of him wondered if it would be really be worth it. Would he find it irritating, too hot, or not at all like he'd imagine? The problem with chasing a dream was that when it was finally yours, it withered in his hands, something Russia had been pondering in the last few months since summer left.

He should have been here by now. It would be so ironic if he didn't show up. Leave it to that kid: not there when you want him, there when you don't. Russia fingered the note in his pocket as he stared at a pile of snow. A slightly translucent country was bouncing around it, holding his pet polar bear Kilimanjaro or something. It appeared he was trying to make a snowman. Russia decided that he would be the best one to carry the message. The practically invisible nation was bent over, so busy trying to keep the snowman's head from falling off he didn't see Russia looming over him.

"You're doing it wrong," Russia chided. Canada jumped, looking as if he was about to wet himself. "Fufufufff…" Russia cut him off with a wave. Canada gathered up his polar bear and stood up. He was pretty tall-a few inches taller than America actually-but not quite eye-to-eye with Russia. The poor little guy looked pretty scared, which encouraged Russia further. He liked them scared.

"Who are you?" the polar bear asked. Russia chuckled and came down to the creature's eye level.

"I'm Russia! And you," he stood up to his full height, "are Canada." The astonished country blinked. His resemblance to America really was amazing, save the hair. The hair was a little different.

"You…you know my name?"

"Of course. You're the second biggest country in the world. That practically makes us family. Cousins, da?" Russia grinned, looking pleased and threatening at the same time. "Considering we're one of the dozen or so countries to appear at the True-I mean, Northern Country Peace Summit, I am surprised we haven't gotten to know each other better."

"It's because you're sca- mmph!" Canada clapped a trembling hand over his polar bear's mouth. "So what do you want, anyways?"

"Oh, just to say hello. You know, it gets so lonely when I'm alone for the winter. You should really stop by sometime," Russia said, taking a small step closer. Canada shrunk back.

"Oh n-n-n-no, that's ok, I'm really busy, and I spend all my vacation time at Cuba's house so.."

"Well that doesn't help me much now, does it? I just want to play a friendly game of poker over a glass of vodka or something. But if you're sure that you are tied up, then maybe you could give this to your brother? I'm sure he'd be game," Russia smiled wider, pulling the folded paper out of his pocket and wedging it between the polar bear and Canada's jacket. "There you go."

"Why don't you give it to him yourself? He's, like, on his way now. There, look, his airplane!" Sure enough, an old-school open cockpit fighter plane swooped low over the conference. Sweden smiled to himself while Iceland started muttering about something. Russia felt his heart skip a beat. What if America saw him talking to Canada? The smaller country had the note in hand, waving at his brother with obvious relief.

_Russia may be the largest country in the world, but he's sure dumb. He's not getting a piece of _this _ice any time soon. I know he just wants to get me out in Siberia to play Russian roulette or something, and then get me drunk! I'm not falling for that though, I'll just see that America visits him instead. Then, Russia won't be lonely, I won't be bothered by Russia, and America might get a taste of his own medicine. Foolproof! _Canada thought with an impish gleam behind his spectacles. Even as America skidded to a stop in the fearsomely painted plane of his, the second largest country was on his way.

The Nordics were sitting around, talking about the launch of Mr. Sweden's new company and the incredible success it was. They paused to look over at where America had just landed. It was concluded that the roar of those engines was terribly loud, just like him. Finland and Estonia were having a friendly discussion about festivals they were going to throw that year, which Mr. Sweden considered weird. Pretending to listen, he instead gazed over at the western nation, watching as he and his brother, who nobody else at the meeting acknowledged, had some sort of discussion. Then, without so much as a pause for reflection, America charged over-undoubtedly to start rambling on about diets or IKEA or something stupid-with a hamburger in hand.

Turning his back on the summit-Russia had had enough of internatonal relations and conversation for one day-the giant country walked slowly to his jumbo jet. He told his pilot absentmindedly they would be headed north, for he wanted to tour his unstable, rusted-out nuclear submarine docks. It made him so sentimental. Ducking out of his jet before it taxied away, he managed to catch America's eye. It wasn't hard, considering he had been staring at him the entire time. Receiving a note from one of the worlds most powerful (and yes, creepy) countries of all time asking for a partner in a casual game of danger and luck must've been an…interesting experience. It was certainly unique, as the offer had never been made before. America grinned in his famous "hero" way, and, although it might have been just a trick of the sunlight, winked. Russia smiled and waved back before closing up the hatch on his 747.

Russia whistled the whole way home.


	3. Shacking Up in Siberia

**Author's Note: If you've made it this far, good job! You have my appreciation, too. Now, on with the story. I hope you like it! **

"I've never done this before," America panted, spread out on the thick pile of blankets. The pair could feel electricity in the air, although it did not have the high voltage that they had been seeing among the Europeans in recent times. Russia knew his face was a blank-an attempt to look pleasant, but still blank for him-but still wondered if anything betrayed the knot of emotion he felt all inside him, threatening to unravel. With his gloves still on, he removed it from its hiding place.

America couldn't believe its size. It was so long and thick and, to America's reluctant surprise, somewhat…beautiful. It looked a little like his own, actually, and the thought was comforting to his frayed nerves. Being the rash, nosy, loud country he was, America did not often have reason to be nervous, aside from those cheesy "reality" ghost shows he's watched with Japan. That seemed like so long ago now. Present dangers had a way of pushing fears felt in the past to the back of the mind.

Russia loomed over America, not comfortable enough to lie down on the pile of blankets he had dragged here, out in the middle of the snow, next to his favorite glassy pond. The day still had an air of fantasy, those unbuffed edges of a dreamscape. He looked down at it. Although it was still warm from his coat, he could feel it getting colder by the second. America was sprawled out so carelessly, but he saw through that for just a second. Just a glimpse was all he needed. They were two very powerful countries, but just for a second, Russia thought he saw a break in the bravado, a twitch in his smile… America _was_ taking this seriously. It gave Russia confidence as their eyes locked.

_He's strong and he knows it. I don't scare him at all. He's probably the only country in the world that doesn't totally either hate me or need me in some way. He could exist on his own if he wanted. _America thought, staring into Russia's bottomless eyes. They didn't seem so vast, soulless, intimidating, or vaguely creepy out here in his natural setting. Russia's eyes actually seemed kind of warm compared to their silver and white surrounding. Hmm. America extended a gloved hand out and placed his fist over it in Russia's hand.

"Let's do this."

"And the bet?" Russia asked in his slightly warbling accent.

"Winner takes all." It was unlike America to play it safe, so he did what was expected.

"Just as I was hoping," Russia smirked as he pulled six bullets out of his cavernous pockets. The silver haired began loading the still-warm revolver in his large hand. America snatched the loaded gun away from his opponent and began spinning the wheel around, ensuring fair play. He looked at the firearm through his lenses which were perched confidently on his reddening nose. The glasses that made Austria and Canada look feminine and slightly weaker had no effect on his visage. In fact, they made him look more human. Under that façade of confident brashness, there was indeed a real person with flaws, Russia mused. It was endearing.

"You go first," America said with narrowed eyes, having concluded he had no idea how one was supposed to play this game of luck. Russia smiled knowingly and put the muzzle of the pistol near his temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation. It was a blank. America took the gun and did the same, also without hesitation.

"I'm surprised you do not hesitate," the older man commented.

"Hesitation makes no sense to me. If I'm going to die, I don't want my last moments to be spent thinking about how I'm going to die, or how it might hurt or…other complications. When I go, it'll be with a bang, and I'll be over and gone and I won't have to worry about keeping up with anyone anymore. I wonder if I'd have a funeral…" Russia was surprised. The younger country had that famous dreamy, faraway look. The gun sat between them, and America was looking up at the sky with his arms folded behind his head. His face was both resigned and innocent.

"Of course you would. Do not be so naïve to think that the world would never notice your passing. In fact, you would probably take half of us with you."

"Have you ever felt tired?" Russia blinked. "Not just physically tired… just heavy. Like the world was on your shoulders."

"I'd consider that to be physically tiring. Even as large as I am, I wouldn't want Cuba and Sweden on my shoulders. Those two combined would cause me much back pain."

"You sound like Japan with a Russian accent there," America laughed, lightening the mood. Russia finally reclined alongside his opponent, mimicking his position.

"You know, if the other countries could see us, they'd laugh," America said.

"They laugh at you anyways, da?"

"Well, yes but it is kind of ridiculous, two major countries just shooting the breeze in the middle of nowhere like the world is on pause."

"Well, considering we're probably the two leading world powers right now, we probably could put the world on pause, just the two of us," Russia said. His tone was lightly jovial, but he meant it. America made a noise of agreement, and then they just reclined there, growing colder and enjoying Siberia's winter sky. The conversation went to weather, and on que, snow began to pepper the ground. The pair agreed to begin their trek home, although Russia had made sure it would be less strenuous that his last trip out here. Russia helped America tie his snowshoes on, and they split the pile of heavy blankets evenly. The pistol was pocketed.

America found himself falling into step behind the silvery blonde. Once or twice the scarf hit him in the face, like it had a mind of its own. America could've sworn he saw it twitch like a coiled snake once or twice, but he dismissed it as pre-hypothermia. He promised himself never to judge Russia for being bonkers again; the man must have an iron constitution to survive all alone out here for centuries. It seemed like forever until they reached his house, and by then the landscape was awash with heavy white puffs, floating down at a frenzied pace. It would be too soon if he never ventured out into this type of cold again!

As soon as they were inside, Russia knelt to undo his snowshoes before undoing his visitor's. It made America feel like a bit like child, but it was nice to be taken care of every now and then. Looking around the small, cozy shack, he spied a couple mismatched chairs in the kitchen and chose the worn-looking wooden one. Somehow it reminded him of home. America studied the worn table's grain patterns while Russia fiddled with the radio and put some hot water on. It felt nice to be out of his jacket, and over in the corner Russia had a loose blue sweater on as well as his ever-present scarf. America let his mind go blank while the din of Russian broadcasters rattled through the kitchen.

"So, where are your underlings? I thought you lived with some other countries."

"Away." Russia sounded like he was concentrating, so the younger country left him alone. It would be horrible to live out here all alone, surrounded by all this white. It was quite warm in here, but he could still hear the wind howling outside, testing the strength of Russia's house. It made America feel sorry for the laid back, simple country with such a bloody past.

"I have bad news," the giant of a man said, taking a seat in the patched up, old-looking chair across from him. It seemed to want to break, but the white tape kept the groaning splinters together. America was sure he had seen the chair before, but he couldn't place it. "We are now in the middle of a blizzard."

Russia watched as the expression on America's face formed. He didn't look as panicked as expected. The younger country's eyes seemed to be once again off in the distance, lost in some idealistic world only he could imagine. In the time Russia had known him, ever since the child had emerged from under obnoxious England's wing, he had gotten more and more anchored to the bitter world, but he still occasionally retreated to that place. If it gave him peace, so be it. Russia could relate.

"I suppose I'll have to stay the night then. How soon do you think I can leave?" Russia's smile grew. This would be interesting. He only hoped he could entertain his guest as long as the storm decided to stay.

"No less than a week. Do not worry, I will not make you play Russian roulette again," the older country commented.

"We never finished our game, did we?" America smiled distantly. "I'm not a man to go back on my promises. I will finish it if you wish. That's why I came here in the first place, after all."

"I'm afraid there would be no point." America angled his head, curious. "We were not playing a real game. It was entirely loaded with blanks." Russia grinned. "I would not hurt the first country ever to come stay at my house under your own free will. You really thought I would, da?"

America looked slightly miffed. He wasn't a particularly intelligent country, but he didn't like being tricked either. Unless he knew he was being tricked, like in the theaters. America ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. What would the two of them do for all that time? It would certainly be nice to get to know the guy a little bit better but fear still lurked at the back of his mind. For all he knew, Russia could be even more dark and creepy on the inside than popular rumor told. One could never entirely tell how cracked the psyche beneath those violet eyes was, and it didn't help that he was totally oblivious to his own cruel tendencies. Even worse, America realized he might end up telling more information than necessary about himself. Keeping secrets wasn't his strongest suit, and to make matters worse, once something really terrible slipped out, his boss usually lied to cover it up, making his seem like even more of an idiot and a scoundrel. At least their bosses weren't there, even though they would both probably get busted for the trip later.

America eyed their coats, hung on pegs side-by-side next to the mud room; one was long, worn, and brown, with a certain dignity that came from centuries of weathering and centuries more of cultural heritage. The other was newer and a warm, chestnut shade of brown, with large, generic-looking buttons and fashionable stitching. It did not have a singular cultural origin, but it was easy on the eyes. The two together didn't match, but they still didn't look totally alien or out of place. America sighed, looking back at his temporary roommate.

"So where do I sleep?"


	4. Running Away

**Note: Well, here we are again. I wrote myself into a corner with this one, and this is my way out. There will be no alternate ending, since the original one I was writing was deleted :/ Sorry folks. This is the second to last chapter, please read and review anyway!**

America ran for his life.

He felt like he was running through a time warp; the snow bogged him down, costing him precious seconds. If he were in a movie, there would be a dramatic sound score to urge him on. People would be on the edge of their seats, wishing him on. But he wasn't on the silver screen this time. He was in Siberia. After 36 hours the snowstorm had abruptly ceased, although it was all expected to turn to ice that night.

The young nation threw himself against Russia's shed's door, knocking some snow inside as he fumbled with the lock. Hopefully all his decoy trails would keep the Russian man busy for awhile. America thought they were rather cleverly set up. After all, he was a descendant of the master of espionage, Britain! The shed wasn't a satisfactory hiding spot alone, though. Nestling himself behind a few stacks of boxes, the hiding nation prepared himself for a long wait. He heard a muffled shout- what was most likely _one hundred _in Russian –and smiled. Let the games begin!

_Vodka dude will never find me! I'm the hero! _he encouraged himself. Taking pleasure in that train of thought, he continued. _I'm _so _the hero of the world. I mean, who has all the awesome, action packed comics? Not that the ones from Japan aren't, like, entertaining, but mine are just so much more badass. I mean, my favorite hero could totally take one of those fem, Yu-gi-ball Z guys. It takes them a whole season to have a decent fist fight! _He lost his train of thought, to regain a better one.

_So who's _my _favorite hero? _America was actually stumped. _Hahahaha! It's got to be Captain America! I'm in the name and everything! But what about Superman? He has way more chivalry and awesome power than the Captain… the kryptonite thing is kinda lame, though. I do like Batman, because inventing things that are good in a fight is totally epic! Spider-man is just to flexible in my opinion. Iron Man is OK. I love his movies, all those explosions!_

Then America saw something shiny. He plucked a long, sharp-looking knife out of an open box. It had Russian writing on it, but unfortunately America couldn't make it out. _I wonder what it says! Could it be one of Russia's old weapons? _The hiding nation expertly twirled the knife around, trying out its weight. It was a good weapon, made to stand the test of time.

Squinting through his glasses, America noticed a thin trail of dried blood on the sharpest edge. His hand immediately dropped it back in the box. Now in full snooping mode – the young nation paid no mind to common courtesy- he dug through the knife's box. Right at that second, the Russian man kicked the door in.

"I found you! Now it is your turn!" He said with a childish smile, poking his head in the door. America dropped the box he had been looking through in surprise, causing the other man to start. America hastily stood as the other walked over, looking at what he had found. On the floor around him lay a bloodied shirt, probably very old, a battered set of black leather gloves (probably women's size, judging by length), an old scarf similar to the one he was wearing now, and an old diary. To America's horror, the childlike quality of Russia's eyes immediately faded, to be replaced by a much darker, older, more sinister shade. This was the Russia that should have been; the Russia tempered by a simplistic and easily pleased nature should have been dead long ago, the innocence pounded out by long years of hardships. It chilled America like nothing he'd ever seen before, and true fear- not the cinematic kind his movie promoted- made his stomach clench. The reality of it hit him; Russia could do whatever he wanted to him out here, and nobody would even hear him scream. Nobody would miss him for days, maybe weeks…

Instead of advancing towards him, Russia pivoted and marched back towards his house. America found himself jogging along behind the giant, despite the other's growing purple aura. Still, Russia slammed the back door in America's face, slowing the other down considerably. Russia was found in his room, throwing things (namely sweaters and bottles of vodka) into a suitcase.

"Russia, man, what happened back there?" the young man asked, standing in the doorframe. Russia didn't look up.

"We are needing to get out of here. Pack now," the man stated, walking to his tiny bathroom to retrieve a toothbrush. The American gulped, noting the Russian's slip from good English back into his World War I heavy accent. This couldn't be a good sign.

"What happened? I'm sorry I was totally snooping, but you don't have to go all weird on me!"

"We talk on plane. It is sixty miles to next airstrip, we walk soon," he said, zipping his suitcase shut. America was glad he hadn't unpacked yet.

"Dude, it's like thirty degrees out there!" Russia stared at America, not impressed. "Oh… right, Celsius. It's like… really cold! We'll freeze for sure!"

"We are countries. We cannot freeze. We live and die with our land, with our people," the man said grimly, eyes distant. "We can't be drowned, hung, stabbed, or… strangled." His voice sounded pained, as if it cost him something to confess this. The comment was shouldered aside. After all, America wasn't one to notice subtly hidden things.

"Just tell me what you're thinking!" The younger country blurted out. He found himself looking up into the indigo-violet eyes of the Siberian nation. He unconsciously took a step back.

"I am thinking of things that should not be thought of. I am _thinking _about your chance of survival if we stay here one more moment… I can't… I can't _being_ here anymore…. Too dark.." Russia stumbled as his grasp on English slipped. "_Ty dolzhna stydit'sya sobstennogo nevezhestva," _he whispered to himself. America was distraught at this point. He'd never seen the calm giant this worked up. Although he didn't particularly care to meet the ghosts that haunted his...friend? Ally?... well, haunted _Ivan. _

"Sit down," America said in his most heroic voice. He hoped it didn't sound as shaky as he felt. Grabbing a bottle of vodka out of the suitcase, he handed it to the big man. "and drink this. I'll get you something… from the kitchen!" With that said, the younger man half ran to the tiny cupboard. _What have you gotten yourself into now Alfred? _He berated himself, searching for some sort of comfort food. After trying to read the labels on ten different cans, he finally stumbled across something useful. In the back of the closet, someone had shoved a fairly up-to-date prescription lithium-based pills, cleverly hidden inside a peanut butter jar. _Alright! Go Toris! Now to find something to put this in…_

Getting an idea (they didn't call him "the Inventor" for nothing!) he headed for the refrigerator. He pulled out what he had been searching for- a pint of chocolate ice cream. When he pulled it out, he saw something quite strange. In the back of the Siberian nation's freezer, it appeared there was… a frozen sunflower. Odd. _Chocolate, _America thought, _this guy must be really depressed! _Shrugging the thought off, he proceeded to mash three capsules into powder and dump them on the contents of the frozen food. _Countries can't get overdosed, right? _Unfortunately, the stuff was frozen rock solid, and Russia didn't own a microwave oven, so America turned a burner on low, stuck the carton of chocolate ice cream in a pan over the tiny blue flame, and hoped it wouldn't melt. Russia seemed a bit quieter; America hadn't heard him shuffling around in the last few minutes. Hopefully that was a good sign. Finally the ice cream was somewhat thawed, and allowed the lithium to be folded in. America hoped it wouldn't taste too bad. Expecting the worst, he carried in to his distressed colleague's bedroom.

"Hey, I brought you some ice cream!" the younger blonde exclaimed, taking a seat next to the Russian. The latter didn't move; except for the occasional movement of his eyelashes, he seemed to be frozen in the "Thinker" position… if the Thinker wore a Red Army coat and sported a half-empty vodka bottle in his free hand. Russia turned, slowly evaluating the carton and spoon with his faraway eyes, then moving towards the American. He took the carton like a timid animal and began eating, slowly at first, then picking up the pace until the ice cream was gone. Licking his lips (and totally oblivious to any drugs that may have been administered) he finally spoke.

"You will take me to your house now." America inwardly balked. He couldn't imagine Ivan in his precious New England, or on the Golden Plains, or even the purple mountains "majesty"! Not to mention what his Boss would say…

"My place is awesome, but I'm not sure-"

"You will take me there! Or anywhere. Just get me away from this winter…" he cut America off. "And your place has field, da? We could be planting flowers, sunflowers! It would be warm," he giggled. For a moment his eyes returned to their normal light violet shade, then darkening each second he waited for an acknowledgement.

"Sunflowers? Is that all you want?" America asked cautiously, not wanting to dash the other's childlike hopes. Russia nodded. He sat on pins and needles, remembering the frozen flower in the freezer. It had been rotting; he then thought he knew exactly why the other wanted more sunflowers. The idea was two parts revolting, for some subliminal reason, and one part sweet. Such was the Siberian nation. "Well… I'll see if I can get my boss to plant some flowers while we're here! Where can I make a call?"

"There is station six miles to west. I take you there!" the Russian said, hopping up. Unfortunatly, the vodka and medication had apparently had an adverse reaction; the giant man wobbled unsteadily before collapsing on the floor, unconscious.

_Well that takes care of one problem, _Alfred thought, breathing a sigh of relief. _So I'll just head due west, make a quick call, and then head back before he wakes up. I wonder how long he'll be out for? _America pushed the suitcase into Russia's closet, and hauled the other onto the bed. He threw on a blanket for good measure. Shrugging on his coat, he grabbed a map, some heavy boots, and snowshoes. Tucking a small canister of vodka into his breast pocket, America headed into the whiteout.

It was the longest six miles of his life, but somehow he made it to the little station. _Good thing us countries have an infallible sense of direction!_ It was actually a trading post-slash-airport. He stepped inside, trying to remember how to string a sentence in Russian together, when he bumped into someone.

"Matthew!" he exclaimed, embracing the timid nation. " I didn't see you there!"

"Of course you didn't," the shorter one muttered. "I'm here to rescue you from Russia!" America paused. _How nice of him! _

"He's… kind of passed out back at his place," America explained with a pang of guilt. "I can't just leave him!"

"Sure you can! He's Russian, he lived here for a thousand years before we were even born," Matthew explained, looking a bit impatient. "So are you making me go home alone? You won't get another ride back until spring, at least!" America considered, sighing as he made his decision.

"Alright," he consented, taking one last look at his surroundings. He would mail Russia a sunflower in a few months. "But only if you ride shotgun!"

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know some of this doesn't make sense, especially Russia's ravings, but I promise it will be explained eventually, in my next story (yet to be titled!), starring a few OC's and him. It will be a bit darker than this chapter, maybe even darker than the next one. Also, my plans for alternate endings are probably going to be canceled. I was going to write one with more fluffiness and innuendo, but I got stuck and lost the plotline, so here you are. **

**Credits to the medication idea go to Startled Boris. Check **_**The Baltics Secrets **_**(and their sequels/prequels) out!**

_**Ty dolzhna stydit'sya sobstennogo nevezhestva – **_**to the best of my knowledge, this means "You should be ashamed of yourself" in Russian, spelled phonetically of course.**

****I find myself in need of a beta! I need someone to proof my stuff, not only for grammar errors, but plot inconsistencies, rambling sentences, misuse of words, clarity, things like that. PM me if you're interested, I will gladly beta in return! **


	5. You Can't Bottle Sunshine, Vanya

You Can't Bottle Sunshine, Vanya

Russia woke alone.

It took his foggy brain a few seconds to register all was not as it should have been. The last thing he remembered was… asking America to go to the station with him last night! He looked over at his clock (which also showed time and date- a necessity for long days spent shut in a cabin), which told him two days had passed since he last remembered being conscious.

The first thing that should have tipped him off was more subtle, though. He was cold again. Considering he was 77% Siberia, this was no phenomena; he just had not noticed it in the time America was there. Company distracted him. The second clue was the silence. No talking, shuffling, whistling, snoring – the American was always making some sort of noise, even asleep- of singing could be heard. Only the sound of General Winter outside and his own heartbeat told him he was still alive at all. It was clear America had ditched him days ago.

As soon as Ivan realized this, his stomach dropped like he was on one of those roller coasters Latvia loved, although this plunge never ended. America must've snuck off during the night. _He probably had a plane waiting for him, _Russia concluded, forgetting that _he _was the one who suggested America go to the station to begin with. _And now you are all alone. All alone with the box and her face in your head. _

Feeling a black cloud of desperation creeping up on him, Russia threw the empty bottle of vodka on his nightstand against the wall, shattering the glass with a satisfying crash. The shards fell to the floor, where they would stay, devoid of any purpose save an odd sort of grungy aesthetic favored by backstreet sculptors. This didn't matter to the now-manic nation. Resembling a caged tiger, he paced the length of his house at least a dozen times, searching his long-broken mind for some sort of comfort. He found none.

In his desperate frustration, the Russian found himself in the same shed that had awoken the holy fear of being alone in him just a few days ago. His hands were numb to the other memories that lingered in the box as he searched for the words he remembered.

Russia's hands paused when they found his sister's diary. It wasn't really a _diary, _in the conventional sense of the word, just a book with a hundred blank pages, home to several folded inhabitants. Russia pulled the largest bundle of pages out of its nook, noting with chagrin that it was the only one that had been meant for his eyes at all. It was the last letter he'd received from Ukraine. Her voice read it to him in his head, not sounding unlike those nights when she'd comforted him during one of General Winter's rages.

_Vanya-_

_Please don't be angry with me. I don't want to leave you- everyone needs family in their life- but I find myself wanting to go. I am truly sorry, and I hope you do not have too much trouble with our little headstrong Bela when I am gone. My boss says we can't see each other anymore, but you'll always be my little sunflower. _

_ Be strong. I knew our time together was limited, and I think in your heart of hearts you also knew it to be true. You can't bottle sunshine, Vanya._

_Forever your sister,_

_Kataya_

For the first time since he was a young nation, no more than the country of Rus, the large man felt a tear slide down his face, He dropped the book and stumbled outside before falling to his knees in the ice and snow. His hands tugged as his hair and the ice bit into his thin pants, but neither could make him unsee all the blood and warfare in his past.

_Images of people, bloodied, frozen, impaled, people, _his _people, flashed by, jumping back and fourth hundreds of years at a time. It seemed his memory was no longer linear; as soon as he was sure a bright scene was due, he was plunged back into the depths of another winter, from another time. Winter in Siberia was so long…_

_ You should have seen this coming, _a voice surprisingly like America's taunted. _When you think that spring is around the corner, it snows. When you think light must exist in the world, darkness smothers you. Try as you might, you will never escape. You will never make enough light to overthrow the cold. And you can't bottle sunshine, remember?_

**I know, I know. I feel like I just wrote the third book in the Hunger games series… (If you've read it you know what I'm talking about!) Sorry for the lame ending! There will be a backstory though, which will explain this angsty Russia and maybe even have a smattering of bad romance! And not the Lady Gaga kind.**

**Not sure how historical this is. I tried to make it pre-cold war, but Ukraine leaving doesn't match up with that timeline. My artistic licence just got stolen by the Fine Arts Police…**

**Be careful, flames can start fires in innocent forests! **


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